Victory Over the Heart
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: Not content with simply playing games with Sherlock, Moriarty plans to finally burn out his heart once and for all. And in doing this, he forces Sherlock to make a terrible choice...


**A/N **I know I should be working on other stories but the urge to write for Moriarty again was too great. Hope you enjoy this :)

_Disclaimer: I own nothing :(_

* * *

><p>A year had passed after the final confrontation between Moriarty and Sherlock, a series of events that Sherlock had christened simply as 'The Fall'. In that time Sherlock had tried to keep working, hunting down as many of Moriarty's men as he could while trying to remain hidden in Mycroft's shadow, painfully aware of the threat hanging over the heads of his three best friends. However, annoyingly the network could be as difficult to track down as Moriarty himself.<p>

To top it all off, Sherlock wasn't the only one whose escape plan involved faking his death. This fact had made itself clear when Mycroft had used the confusion on the ground seconds after Sherlock's fall as an opportunity to recover the criminal mastermind's body. Instead of finding Moriarty splayed out across the rooftop, he'd been greeted with a message, written across the roof in fake blood.

_Be seeing you soon, Sherlock xx_

All of this explained why a large number of Moriarty's criminal network remained almost untraceable. After all, they were unlikely to find anyone involved with the network unless Moriarty allowed them to be found. It also explained why Sherlock was unsurprised to recieve an anonymous number on a phone that should only have received calls from Mycroft, and had answered to hear that soft, mocking voice greeting him like an old friend.

"Hello Sherlock! Long time no see, as people tend to say nowadays. Such a boring saying, isn't it?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, smothering the urge to pour every insult he'd ever heard of – and he'd heard his fair share – down the phone and into Moriarty's unsuspecting eardrums. "What do you want?"

"I'm rather bored Sherlock. Running a criminal network gets rather tedious after a while. How about we play a little game?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His nemesis obviously hadn't changed, he was still the childish madman who just happened to be completely brilliant. "Seeing as I jumped off a building for you, I struggle to see what else you could possibly want from me."

Sherlock could hear the impatient tone in Moriarty's reply. "Oh, that was all very well, but you didn't die did you? Somebody didn't keep to their side of the bargain..." He trailed off in a sing-song voice, leaving Sherlock in silence, the nature of this so-called 'game' becoming a little clearer. After moments of this silence Moriarty piped up again, his pitch going considerably higher and his manner almost scarily enthusiastic. "It seems you don't want to play along. That's fine, just don't come crying to me when Johnny boy doesn't return to his home tonight in one piece..."

Sherlock froze. Even after all this time, the idea of John's life in danger stirred up great feelings of unease within him. "What have you done with him?" The question came out in a low growl, preparing to unleash all the venom it could muster if Moriarty didn't give him a straight answer.

"Oh, I haven't done anything. My associate, however..."

"Moriarty, if you _dare_ hurt him, I swear-"

"Oh, protective are we? How sweet." Sherlock ground his teeth together in frustration, pacing around the messy room with an ever increasing urge to throw the mobile against the wall. "I assure you that John is safe, for now. I can't guarantee he'll remain that way if you don't play along though."

Sherlock took a deep breath and calmed down, cursing how easily his protective streak for John could take a hold of him. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go to the window. I have a car waiting for you outside, do you see it?"

He made his way over to the window, climbing over a mountain of paperwork in the process, and peeled back the curtain slightly. Sure enough, waiting outside in the dimly lit streets was a sleek black car, rather expensive judging by the model. Moriarty was sparing him no expense. "I see it."

"Now be a good boy and go outside. Don't even try to tell anyone where you're going or what's happening." Sherlock made to hang up, but just as he lowered the phone Moriarty urgently piped up again. "Do expect to be sedated. Can't have you knowing where you're going now can we?"

Sherlock tore the phone from his ear before hanging up and throwing the mobile onto the mess on the floor. His new flat was suffering greatly from the lack of a caring landlady – not housekeeper – to tidy it. The flat was only a temporary shelter though, he had to move to a new place every few weeks, and it was hardly worth his care and attention.

He gathered up his coat and scarf, not that he'd be needing them where he was going, and made his way outside, sparing the flat a small backwards glance before making his way over to the car.

At the sight of the two burly men standing by the car waiting for him, Sherlock automatically squared his shoulders slightly in order to appear bigger. Not that it'd help; judging by the many scars on their faces these men were hardly new when it came to violence and both were so large that their skin seemed to have difficulty stretching over their faces. He approached them with caution, noticing that both were armed, while the largest of them stepped forward to meet him halfway. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock couldn't help but feel slightly insulted that he didn't already know, but seeing as the man evidently had an IQ lower than that of an average child, this wasn't hugely surprising. He nodded curtly, unwilling to make any drastic movements when the man could probably break his neck with little effort. "Yes I am. I assume you're Moriarty's men?"

The man didn't even bother replying. Instead his partner joined him and each forcefully grabbed Sherlock's arms, fighting off the smaller detective's struggles with ease. Sherlock slacked when he felt a syringe jam into his arm, the chemicals having an immediate effect on his body. "Think of this as a present from Moriarty. He says he likes you when you're drugged."

Sherlock grumbled incoherently in reply, before slumping against the men's bodies. His vision swirled as the street blurred from view before his mind went silent.

* * *

><p>Sherlock blinked furiously as he was finally dragged back from unconsciousness, slightly irritated at having been taken from a state of relative comfort to the urgent reality that currently faced him, with Moriarty looming possessively over him. After having a full-out battle with his mind in order to avoid surrendering to the temptation of sleep once more, he finally attempted to sit up, groaning as the action spread a wave of nausea over him. He could still feel the effects of the drug in his system.<p>

"Ah, you're finally awake!" Moriarty looked at Sherlock, smiling down on his prize. The consulting criminal was characteristically dressed in an expensive dark suit, evidently wanting to look his best no matter the situation. At a closer glance Sherlock noticed a laptop resting before Moriarty's feet, it's use not entirely clear for now. "It's a shame really, you're so pretty when you sleep..."

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut as his vision began swimming, yet another feeling of sickness jumbling up his drugged mind. "Where..." he winced as a sharp pain attacked his head. He automatically made to rub his forehead, but his hands were restrained behind his back tightly with rope. The bindings were unforgiving against his skin, digging so painfully against his wrists that even the slightest movement threatened to shed several layers of skin away . "Where am I?"

"Look around you and make a deduction if you're desperate to know," Moriarty drawled in a bored tone. "It's not like the information will be of use to you."

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes, finding to his relief that his eyesight had returned to normal and he could trust his senses again. Judging from the vastness of the surrounding space and its emptiness, he assumed he was in a disused warehouse, the thick layer of dust suggesting that it had been abandoned for some time. There were some areas where the dust had been disturbed however, either as a result of kids breaking in or Moriarty had been here before, a likely idea seeing as Moriarty seemed at home here. He'd probably used it for his 'games' before. The overhead windows allowed thin streams of light into the warehouse, the only source of illumination in the otherwise dark space, and judging by the shadows they cast it was early morning. Only a few hours after he'd been abducted then. He could hear the wind rattle against the walls and the faint sound of rushing water could be heard from outside. That and the particular type of rope that had been used to bind his hands together – rough, strong rope, used most commonly on old ships – suggested that he was close to the Thames.

Apparently he'd said all of this aloud, for when he was finally done Moriarty comically clapped his hands together and grinned maniacally. "Very good! Hardly your most impressive deduction, but impressive nonetheless, considering most people are reduced to gabbling nonsense words after a drug that strong..."

Sherlock tried to sit up again in order to lean against the wall, hissing in pain as the rope attacked his wrists so much he could feel the skin break and blood spread onto his hands. The sudden movement also caused blood to rush to his head and he had to blink several times to clear his mind. "Where's John?"

"He isn't here. He's waiting somewhere else, safe and sound. Well, sort of..." Smiling as Sherlock moved to glare up at him, Moriarty continued. "He should be honoured. I hired someone specially to take care of him. Sebastian Moran. Amazing sniper. Rather sadistic..."

"Take me to him!" Sherlock fought against his bonds, his threats being released in a low snarl. _"Now!"_

Moriarty shook his head dramatically, wearing a fake frown which barely managed to hide his enjoyment at Sherlock's fruitless attempts to fight back. "Can't do that Sherlock. Could lead to complications..." At Sherlock's dangerous expression Moriarty sighed before reaching down for the laptop by his feet. "I'll give you a video feed to show you he's alive. That's all you're getting."

Sherlock continued to glare at Moriarty before deciding that, on this occasion at least, acting like a petulant child would get him nowhere. All it did was fuel Moriarty's barely contained excitement. He dropped his gaze and nodded once. "Show me."

Moriarty opened the laptop and spent a moment admiring whatever had appeared on-screen, another wide grin snaking its way across his features. "I should warn you before you see this, that there are cameras here that can pick up everything we say and do. Lets just say that if you become violent then Johnny boy won't thank you for it."

Sherlock immediately stopped trying to tear his hands away from the tight rope and collapsed against the wall, attempting to keep his voice low and threatening despite this display of uselessness. "_Show me."_

Moriarty flipped the laptop around in his hands and slowly placed it on the floor before Sherlock, who brought his gaze to focus on the image displayed on the screen, feeling a sharp pang of guilt slice through him as he took it in.

John had been tied to a chair and left sitting in the centre of a small interrogation room. The plain surroundings gave Sherlock almost nothing to go on, certainly not enough to determine the room's location. John appeared to be in a bad way, blood flowed freely from an open head wound where he'd previously been knocked unconscious and his eyelids were drooping as he struggled to hold his head upright. Other than the obvious injury though, he seemed relatively unharmed if you could ignore the possibility of concussion. However there was no telling what Moriarty would do to him as his 'game' progressed.

"John..." The other man's head raised slightly at the whispered mention of his name, evidently he could hear everything that happened between Sherlock and Moriarty as surely as the consulting criminal's henchmen could. John's eyes darted around the room frantically as a broken whisper escaped his lips, barely audible from the laptop speakers. "Sher... Sherlock?"

Moriarty overlooked the small exchange with mild interest, growing impatient in his ever increasing eagerness to start the game. "Yes, this is all very sweet..." He twisted his body round in an almost inhuman motion, attempting to get a better view of the screen. "Oh look!" He piped up excitedly. "Your little pet has gone hopeful all of a sudden. Probably expects you to save him."

A painful mixture of guilt and dread stirred up within Sherlock, smothering any ideas of a bitter remark in response and forcing him to concentrate solely on his best friend. "I will save him... John I promise you I'll get you out of this."

The vow was barely louder than a whisper but John's slight nod of acknowledgement confirmed that he'd heard Sherlock's promise. While this situation was hardly the ideal way for him to be reunited with John, he had to admit that he was glad that the pretence of his untimely 'death' could finally be put to rest.

The comforting moment vanished before it had fully begun as Moriarty closed the laptop over, hiding any indication of John's continued survival from Sherlock's eyes. "Goodbye Johnny, Sherlock and I need a little chat now."

Sherlock shrank further back against the wall, mourning the loss of some sort of contact with his best friend. Moriarty was hardly a welcome replacement. "What do you want?" he said finally.

"You go soft around John, have you noticed?" Sherlock glared up at Moriarty again, annoyed that he was avoiding the question. "You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you? Some sociopath you are. I dread to think what went on between you two behind closed doors..."

"What do you want, Moriarty?"Sherlock growled, not even bothering to mask his impatience.

"I want to play, Sherlock!" He waited for a reaction, anything that could betray a response from the detective. His face fell when Sherlock decided to remain glowering at him. "Nothing? Not even a teensy reaction? Don't be so dull..."

Moriarty crouched down, allowing his dark gaze to meet Sherlock's icy glare properly. His smile had returned, he was evidently enjoying this situation more that he was supposed to. "Do you know what I want from you? Can you remember?"

Sherlock sneered, trying to hide the unease he felt as the consulting criminal was now far too close for comfort. "Why don't you enlighten me? You seem desperate to tell me anyway."

Moriarty returned the sneer before resting a hand over the detective's chest, holding the other man still as he squirmed away from the unwanted contact. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating furiously under the layers of fabric and skin, betraying the anxiety and fear that the detective was trying so desperately to hide. Moriarty's voice dropped to a snake-like hiss as a venomous layer slipped into his tone. "I want your heart Sherlock. Or rather, I want to burn it out of you. Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes!" Sherlock snarled through bared teeth as he tried to free himself from Moriarty's grip.

"Oh really? Although I suppose you're still under the impression you don't have one..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to put on a false confident mask as Moriarty seemed to invade his entire personal space. "Why are you so intent on killing me? What is so important about my death that you can gain anything from it?"

Moriarty held up his hands as if displaying some grand gesture. "Oh, I don't want to kill you. We've already tried that, and look where that got us." His grin returned. This time it seemed to distort and twist his entire face until Sherlock was certain the drug was still at work in his brain. "I want something much more delicious than your death Sherlock. I want you to be _properly_ defeated. I want the proud title of the man who beat you."

Sherlock responded with a smirk. "Good luck with that. We both know I have no heart."

"I would have believed you if this was two years ago. However, I have a sure-fire way of defeating you Mr Holmes. Would you like a demonstration?"

Sherlock nodded, both unnerved and intrigued by Moriarty's enthusiasm. He flashed Moriarty a daring smile, no longer caring about what Moriarty planned to do to him. He was adamant that he wouldn't let his nemesis win. "Go on. Do your worst!"

Moriarty sighed, before backing away from Sherlock, much to the other man's relief and standing over his prisoner again. He reached for the laptop and opened it, flashing the detective a knowing smile. "Oh I wouldn't have said that if I were you... Ah, Sebastian! You can begin your fun with Doctor Watson now!" He settled the laptop in front of Sherlock and moved to sit beside him, positively glowing with child-like excitement. "This should be fun."

Sherlock's bravado dissipated in an instant as the full seriousness of his mistake finally dawned on him. "No!"

"What was that? I was sure I heard something..." Sherlock turned to glare at Moriarty, who had placed a hand beside his ear to illustrate his point, and began struggling against the ropes again, despising them for making him feel so useless. However instead of feeling threatened by Sherlock's attempts to fight back, Moriarty simply laughed and turned his full attention to the screen. "Oh look! Sebastian is ever so eager. He even brought along his best carving knife..."

Sherlock turned round to face the screen, blind panic beginning to build up now. Sure enough, a burly man had stepped into the shot, his face obscured from view behind a plain mask and his head framed by a mass of limp blonde hair. He was brandishing a large, blood-stained knife that, judging by the state of it had been used very recently. John, while still dazed, seemed to have realised the seriousness of his situation as he was struggling helplessly in his chair, his desperate, if weak, cries for help audible through the speakers. His head injury had weakened him greatly though, his moves were too sluggish to make an impact and before long he'd collapsed onto his chair, defeated.

"Moriarty don't hurt him, don't you _dare_ hurt him!" The threat was evident in Sherlock's words but the added desperation seemed unnatural, even to the detective's ears. Nevertheless he knew that, given the opportunity, he would happily destroy Moriarty in a heartbeat if he or his men laid another finger on John.

Moriarty, however, simply brushed off the threat, evidently irritated at Sherlock's attempts to struggle. "Or what? What could you possibly do to hurt me now? Now shut up, we'll be at the good part soon!"

Sherlock groaned in frustration before battling with his bonds again, his promise to save John seeming to slip away from him as each second passed. Thankfully, Sebastian hadn't touched John yet as if he were waiting for added confirmation from his boss, but the way he was looming possessively over him as his body shook in bloodthirsty anticipation was enough to have Sherlock pleading. "I'll admit defeat... you can do whatever you want to me just don't hurt John!"

Moriarty leapt to his feet in order to leer down at Sherlock, his victorious expression barely hidden behind the wide smile and gleaming eyes. "If you're that desperate to save your friend then you have to beg." He bent down to pick up the laptop, hiding any image of John from Sherlock's view. "Johnny boy's listening Sherlock. Make it nice and sweet."

Sherlock hesitated, unwilling to beg Moriarty for anything, no matter what was at stake. However his extreme care for John overwhelmed his desire to beat Moriarty and he allowed himself to beg for the first time in his life, feeling deep annoyance at how helpless he sounded. "Please, don't hurt him... _please_."

Moriarty took a moment to study Sherlock, looking down at him with an almost solemn expression before, satisfied, he finally addressed his henchman. "Sebastian, my apologies but your fun will have to wait."

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, shrinking back against the wall while trying to get his body to calm down and stop his mind from screaming. When his breath finally evened he shakily raised his head to meet Moriarty's gaze, surprised to find that the consulting criminal's glee had been replaced with what seemed to be genuine sadness, or an emotion as close to that as Moriarty could possibly portray.

"You're so obvious Sherlock. It's rather disappointing." He turned his attention to the laptop, studying it's image closely as if thinking that if he somehow looked long enough he could somehow be enlightened as to what extraordinary power the doctor had over Sherlock's heart. "Hmm. He's so ordinary... While I have no weaknesses to speak of, you have a glaring one that you practically carry around in your pocket. One that is so very easy to tear away from you. Well, I say one..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation, having already figured out what most of Moriarty's speech would consist of. For a man who thought of Sherlock as obvious, he could be as easy to read as a book at times. "Look, you got what you wanted. Just, please let us go..."

"Oh, I'm not done yet! Not by far. I said I was going to burn out your heart, didn't I? And I think you'll find I keep my promises..." He turned once more to the laptop in his hands, typing away like a maniac who needed something important done in a hurry. When he finally stopped he studied what was in front of him, his head cocked to the side as a smile played across his lips. "Your rather friendly with a certain DI Lestrade aren't you?"

Sherlock felt a chill slice through him that had nothing to do with the bitter cold. "What are you doing?"

"Giving you a choice. One that will, most definitely, break you." He placed the laptop on the ground once again, greeting Sherlock with an image of a barely conscious Lestrade, slumped against the wall. Sherlock felt his usually cold heart clench painfully as the realisation that he'd put yet another friend's life in danger punched him squarely on the chest. And all because of his stupid games with Moriarty...

He took a moment to analyse the picture before him, his brain hungry for information that could provide any use to him. Judging by the particular pattern and colour of the wallpaper behind Lestrade, the man had been attacked in his own home, a place Sherlock recognised from many nights spent there sleeping on the sofa before John's appearance. Due to the various bloodstains on the wall, floor and staining across Lestrade's shirt, as well as his laboured breathing and struggles to remain conscious, it seemed that Moriarty had allowed his men to be less kind with Lestrade than Sebastian had been with John. Knowing Moriarty, it was probably to add more impact to the grand show for Sherlock later.

"Enjoy what you see?"

Sherlock shook his head mechanically, his mind reeling from the idea that Moriarty had two of his best, no, his only friends in his possession. Sherlock swore in that moment that if he ever got out of this he was going to hunt down Moriarty and destroy him with his bare hands.

"That's a shame really. By the look of things, my man put a lot of effort into his artwork. So, now that you're aware of what's at risk, do you want to hear your options?"

Sherlock met Moriarty's gaze once more and nodded, hoping to remain somewhat defiant before his nemesis.

Moriarty straightened his posture, breaking away from Sherlock's watchful gaze and began pacing around his prisoner in a semi-circle, as he liked to do often when a plan needed his explanation. "I have two men in my 'care', both of whom have strong personal connections to you. If you play along nicely then you'll get to see one of them again. As for the other... well, let's just say I hope you enjoy funerals." Before Sherlock could cut in with a bitter remark, Moriarty raised his voice, drowning out any hope of a word of protest from the detective. "Do you want to know the sweetest thing about this? Who lives, who dies... that's you're choice to make."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to appear calm even though his pulse had elevated uselessly at this news. For all he knew this could be a bluff on Moriarty's part. "How cliché. Dull... I should have seen that one coming."

Moriarty smiled at the remark. "I know. Rather effective though, eh? So hurry up then, I haven't got all day. Who's the unlucky man?"

"Me," Sherlock replied without hesitation. "Forget the others, it's me you've been after this entire time. Let them go."

Moriarty's smile faded as if it had been swiped from his face. "Not an option. You're death is no longer enough to ensure my victory. I have to really _hurt_ you. Now choose, Lestrade or John?"

Sherlock could hear his breath quickening as he started to lose the power of rational thought. How the hell was he supposed to make such a choice? Neither man deserved this, it was all his fault for being sucked into this game in the first place. It seemed that Moriarty could torture him for days and he wouldn't bat an eyelid, but when his friends were on the firing line Sherlock found himself affected more strongly than he'd thought possible. In the end he didn't even bother trying to weigh up his options, there was no point. He couldn't begin to justify sacrificing one of his friends to save the life of the other. That way of thinking was for people like Moriarty to understand.

He realised that he was shaking now, his panic rising as he noticed that Moriarty was growing increasingly impatient. He shouldn't be reacting in this way, he should have been cold and calculating. It seemed that Moriarty was breaking him already.

"Anderson..." A fleeting thought somehow managed to make itself voiced aloud, forcing a chuckle in response from the consulting criminal. The laugh reverberated around the large warehouse and dragged Sherlock back from the corners of his mind. "To be honest, he was one of my choices when I was wondering how far I could go with this. That would be too easy though, wouldn't it? You wouldn't even shed a tear over his loss. Now hurry up and pick, unless you want me to choose for you."

"Neither!" Sherlock yelled in a final act of exasperation.

"Oh Sherlock... What a disappointment you've been." He turned to the laptop, his voice becoming strangely authoritative as he gave his order. "Boys! Kill your chosen victims and make it nice and slow. I want Sherlock to hear the screams..."

"No stop!" Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd sounded so desperate, so urgent. Moriarty looked at him, enjoying the sight of a helpless Sherlock for a moment. "Made up your mind yet?"

Sherlock nodded and an involuntary shudder graced his body as every fibre of his being protested against the words he was about to say. He opened his mouth to speak, the words coming out in a choked whisper as a single, alien tear slipped down his cheek. "Lestrade. Kill Lestrade... let John live..."

The victorious expression that painted it's way across Moriarty's face felt like a slap in the face, although even that would have been preferable to the pain that Sherlock was now experiencing. The sight of a broken Sherlock, shedding a tear over the imminent death of his friend must have been too good to bear for the consulting criminal. "Sebastian, don't even lay a finger on John. As for you James..." Moriarty cast Sherlock a mocking glance before continuing. "Kill Lestrade but make it quick. Sherlock dear has finally decided to behave."

Sherlock averted his gaze and looked at the dust covered floor, too ashamed to even look that _monster_ in the eye any more. As Moriarty crouched down again, placing the laptop onto Sherlock's lap, he allowed himself a quick glance of the picture on the screen, before hurriedly tearing his eyes away again. He clenched his jaw as the split second image burned into his mind, the trace of hurt and betrayal in Lestrade's expression noticeable even with just a brief glance.

"Look at it Sherlock." Moriarty's voice was soft but threatening, his manner practically daring Sherlock to look. "Watch him die. After all, you're the one handing him his death sentence..."

"Haven't you hurt me enough?" Sherlock had intended to snap the question at Moriarty but his voice was barely above a whisper, doing nothing to hide the dull ache that spread mercilessly throughout his chest.

Moriarty looked on at his pitiful prisoner, surprised at how well his plan had worked out. How breakable Sherlock really was. He'd have had a harder time with a china doll. However, in a rare moment of kindness he lifted the laptop away, obstructing the view of the screen just as a gunshot sounded through the speakers.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to clear his head. Unsurprisingly, it had no effect. Instead the resulting silence roared in his ears until it was almost deafening, his mind pouring several disturbing images to the forefront, both real and imagined. Hours, or perhaps mere seconds, passed before he spoke in a voice that wasn't his own. "John. I want to see John."

"And so you shall." He typed into the laptop, bringing up the image of John and his means of communication with Sebastian. From what Moriarty could see, John's head was bowed, his shallow breathing suggesting that he was reeling from the shock of everything he'd overheard, while a bored-looking Sebastian was leaning against the wall. "Seb, free John and escort him to Baker Street. Tell him that Sherlock will be arriving there soon after." After receiving an obedient nod from Sebastian, Moriarty closed over the laptop and threw it to the ground, it's usefulness expired, and watched in fascination as it smashed to pieces on the hard floor.

"So is that it?" Sherlock didn't know whether to be relieved or scared. There was no way he could return to normality with John, not after he'd faked his death and got him targeted by Moriarty again. And especially not after what had just happened.

"Yes, I imagine I've done enough damage, don't you? How's your heart?"

Another escaped tear was Sherlock's only response. He hated tears. He always had done, ever since he was a child. When he'd broken his arm at five years old it wasn't the odd angle at which his arm jutted out that had bothered him, nor the extreme pain. It was the presence of an unfamiliar substance flowing down his cheeks beyond his control. Crocodile tears had admittedly come in handy during certain cases that had required his questionable acting skills but the only other time he could remember crying due to actual emotions was during his last phone call to John. And even then, there had at least been some hope that everything could eventually be put right, albeit after many years and a lot of explanations.

Now though, the tears flowed freely, the unwanted products of a giant rush of crushing guilt and other alien feelings he'd never thought himself capable of experiencing. He didn't even bother to register Moriarty before him, barely containing his joy. In that moment in time it was all Sherlock could do to not throw himself onto the floor and scream his agony into the dust.

He tensed as the feeling of scrabbling hands moving to untie his bound wrists dragged him back - mentally kicking and screaming - into reality. Moriarty had deemed him harmless it seemed, enough to free him at least. The consulting criminal knelt beside him, carefully pulling the rope from behind Sherlock and quietly admiring the blood-stained material. "I think tears are enough of an answer." He lightly brushed a fingertip over Sherlock's cheek, wiping away a stray tear. Sherlock didn't even have the pride to pull himself away.

Moriarty sighed at Sherlock's lack of response before rising to his feet again, straightening out his suit and brushing away the dust that had gathered in the creases of the expensive material. Cocking his head to the side slightly he took in his silent nemesis – so boring after his defeat. It was almost tragic to have such a brilliant man fall apart so easily before him. He'd have to set up a few bank robberies in the afternoon to make himself feel better about it.

"Get up. There's a car waiting outside to take you to meet John for a heart-warming reunion. Unless you'd rather stay here-"

Without warning Sherlock launched himself at Moriarty and slammed him forcefully against the wall, both hands pressed against his throat and a finger lying threateningly over his windpipe. As a flash of evident amusement crossed over Moriarty's face, Sherlock closed his eyes and tightened his grip, the rush that came with hurting the consulting criminal taking over his instincts. He wanted to end whatever connection he had to this monster. He wanted to squeeze the life from his body and feel the pulse beneath his fingertips flutter and die out as the psychopath was finally silenced. He wanted to cause Moriarty as much pain as he'd given to Sherlock in the past few years.

His eyes opened suddenly as a choked cough broke free from Moriarty, and he became aware of the consulting criminal's hands clawing desperately at Sherlock's chest. His grip slackened as the realisation of what he was doing began to take a hold of him. Moriarty used this moment of weakness as an excuse to gloat, allowing a grin to spread across his face as the glint in his eye burnt with enjoyment.

"Keep going Sherlock. Kill me if you want, I insist!" The grin faded in an instant as his voice dropped to a low whisper. "Just don't expect John to thank you for it."

Sherlock pulled away quickly as if his hands had been burned. In his moment of madness he'd forgotten all about the cameras.

Moriarty massaged his bruised neck and leant back against the wall, gasping for breath. As his breathing finally began to return to normal an occasional laugh would interrupt the gasps and he met Sherlock's worried gaze with interest. "Well well, aren't _you _the violent one!"

Sherlock could feel his panic rising. For all he knew his foolish actions could just have cost John his life, assuming this Sebastian was a sadistic as Moriarty liked to make out. "John?"

Moriarty raised a shaking hand and waved it away as if pushing the thought of the doctor to one side. "Oh, forget him. He'll be fine. The real trouble would have started if I'd actually stopped breathing..."

Sherlock could hardly trust Moriarty's word, but he allowed himself to breathe a small sigh of relief, one which was followed by more shaking as his mixture of anger, grief and guilt begged to be released, unsatisfied by the anticlimactic attack on Moriarty. The criminal mastermind finally recovered his composure, his breathing still shallow but hardly the laboured gasps he had been suffering from minutes before. He looked over at the door and signalled it to Sherlock with a nod.

"Your car's waiting outside. My men will take you to Baker Street. Oh, and I wouldn't make any small talk with them, they're rather short tempered..." When Sherlock remained still, Moriarty waved a hand dramatically, his game significantly less entertaining now that it was over. "Off you go. You may not be in a hurry but I have a criminal network to run."

Sherlock threw Moriarty one final hateful glance before making his way over to the door, swaying slightly as the after-effects of the drug started to take hold once more. He rubbed the raw wounds on his wrists clumsily, hardly caring that it added to the pain. Pain was good, it was a distraction. It took his mind away from Lestrade's... from what had just happened.

When he reached the door he hesitated, unaware of whether or not Moriarty really intended to let him go. For all he knew he'd be stepping out into a rain of bullets. And yet, he was beyond caring, his life revolved around foolish risks. Without sparing a backwards glance he pulled open the sliding door with effort and stepped out into the fierce sunlight.

Sure enough, the two men who'd drugged him and taken him here were stood waiting by the car. As he approached them he noticed their barely hidden shaking fists and the dejected looks on their large faces, obviously having been robbed of the opportunity to put their 'skills' to good use. Sherlock could see that they were mindless fighters, punch first and ask questions later, much like a lot of the people Moriarty seemed to have in reserve.

He climbed into the back seat of the car silently, relieved that he'd be conscious for this journey. Looking out the window he realised he'd been right about his location – judging by the faded company name on the warehouse the place had been out of industrial use for at least two years, and the Thames flowed down further into the city on his right side. Yet another correct deduction, although hardly one that called for celebration. The two silent henchmen climbed into the car with difficulty, their large bodies only just managing to squeeze into the front seats, and drove away from the warehouse, leaving Moriarty alone to revel in his bittersweet victory.

The early morning streets were almost deserted and quiet enough that Sherlock's thoughts could return him to what he'd inevitably have to think about sooner or later. Lestrade. The man he'd let die to save John.

An ordinary man in his situation would have tried to justify this choice, probably insisting that he'd been given no option and that one of the men would have died anyway. Personal choice wouldn't even have crossed their minds, they'd say they were desperate and had chosen randomly.

Not Sherlock. He didn't fool himself in this way, he found no point in it. He'd saved John for selfish reasons – because he was his best friend and the man he cared about most in the world. That and the fact that Sherlock doubted that he'd have survived his dangerous lifestyle for as long as he had without John by his side. Lestrade had just been unlucky. Moriarty had probably known when he'd set up this scheme that the detective inspector hadn't stood a chance. And yet, Sherlock found that these thoughts did not come to him in their usual, calculating manner but as the products of guilt. And that was a feeling he was completely unfamiliar, not to mention uncomfortable, with.

Sherlock's chest ached again. It was doing that a lot now. It clenched his heart and tightened his throat, restricting the air trying to reach his lungs. It was almost fascinating; he supposed this was what the body was like before it allowed a sob to escape. And he'd probably have allowed that to happen if he wasn't sharing a car with Moriarty's cronies.

He thought of Lestrade properly for a few moments, because someone had to mourn him sooner or later. He thought of the man who was probably his oldest friend, the man who'd helped him deal with his drug addiction and had allowed him in on several interesting cases to distract his constantly working mind. The man who'd offered his flat as a shelter whenever Sherlock found himself homeless, which had been often, even though the presence of the strange ex-drug addict caused rifts in the older man's marriage. He was the man who'd run to Sherlock's side every time he'd gotten himself injured after making the stupid decision to chase after criminals and the one who'd remained on his side when everyone else, excluding John, had turned against him during his last battle with Moriarty, sending him a warning of the imminent arrival of police.

He was also the man whose first name Sherlock hadn't even bothered to learn until John had pointed it out, despite everything he had ever done for the detective.

He let out a groan of frustration as his mind refused to shut up and trained his eyes to the floor, desperate for the car to pull up soon and then disappear from sight. He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep measured breath, feeling a temporary relief in the resulting silence.

He didn't have long to enjoy this calm state though, as five minutes later he felt the car slow to a halt as they finally arrived at his old home.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock found himself walking into his old flat in 221B for the first time in a year, he was taken aback by how little it had changed. Yes, his science equipment had vanished and the place was considerably tidier for it, but the layout was still the same. It still felt like home in a strange way. Even John's chair and his own still faced each other and the smiley face riddled with bullet holes remained painted on the wall.<p>

"John?" Sherlock had acknowledged his friend's absence, and after everything that had just occurred, he couldn't help the sense of dread that slowly crept up on him. So when John finally emerged from up the stairs – shaken and sporting an ice-pack to his head injury but ultimately _alive_ – Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relieved.

John descended the stairs slowly, his limp making the journey a rather painful one, before approaching Sherlock almost carefully, his eyes widened in shock and an undercurrent of anger lurking behind his expression. "So it's true then. You really are alive..."

Sherlock nodded once, struggling to hold back that choked sob that he was finding difficult to swallow. He noted John's dishevelled hair, his tired eyes – duller than usual – the dried blood that lined the side of his head. His best friend looked like hell. "John, I'm sorry. I-"

"No Sherlock, don't. Just don't..." John took a deep breath, wondering for a brief moment whether or not punching Sherlock would be a good idea after the year he'd just had, before deciding against it. Instead he rubbed his tired eyes, as if doing so would wipe the illusion away and he'd find his life back to normal, or as normal as it could possibly be for now. He winced as the action caused a stab of pain to attack his head and noticed that Sherlock automatically took a step forward to aid him. He shot the detective a warning look, before applying the ice-pack to the wound again.

"John, you're hurt. Just let me..."

"I'm fine Sherlock!" John collapsed onto the sofa as his legs threatened to give way and bring him crashing to the floor, and his breathing had quickened significantly. He decided against apologising for the harshness in his tone, he doubted he was thinking straight enough to choke out an 'I'm sorry' anyway. A moment passed and the two men remained still, Sherlock too busy fighting an inner battle and John too shell-shocked to bother with the other man. In the end it was John who broke the silence, asking the question that sent the feeling of a sharp knife plunging into Sherlock's chest. "Why did you let Lestrade die?"

Sherlock struggled to conjure up an answer that didn't make him look like a selfish bastard. He didn't think John would understand the truth in his current state. "You heard everything then?"

"Yes I heard everything!" John snapped, lowering his volume slightly when he saw Sherlock shift uncomfortably. "I mean, he's been your friend longer than I have, he didn't choose to tag along with you in Moriarty's games. Why did he deserve to... oh Jesus..." John shook his head as a sudden realisation came to him. "I'll have to tell everyone at the station. And his family...Why did you-"

"I didn't want to lose you again." Sherlock's whispered reply was probably one of the most frightening things John was ever likely to hear. He looked up at his friend for confirmation that he was the one who had actually said the words. Never before had the detective seemed so small, so broken.

The silence that followed was agonising as they both realised simultaneously that Moriarty had undoubtedly won, succeeding in burning out Sherlock's heart and shaking up his mind by the look of things as well. And that realisation had the automatic effect of tearing John apart as well, until Sherlock's words finally sank in.

John's disbelieving laugh was more unnerving to Sherlock than Moriarty could ever dream of being. He cradled his head in his hands and rubbed his face. "That doesn't make it okay..." He brought his gaze to meet Sherlock's, looking into his eyes properly for the first time in a year.

Sherlock made no attempt to reply. It seemed that every barrier he'd been carefully building for years had come crashing down in the past few hours with little hope of ever being rebuilt. Moriarty had destroyed everything he loved, murdering his oldest friend and ensuring that he and John could never be as close again without unspoken demons creeping into their relationship. He was about to announce that he was leaving before John's mobile began crying for attention.

John grabbed it, and his face crumpled as he recognised the number. "It's Donovan..." To Sherlock's questioning glance he explained further. "After you 'died' I tried out a few cases, to keep my mind off things. It was usually Lestrade who contacted me. If Donovan's calling..." He gulped and put the phone to his ear. "Sally?"

Sally's response was unusually frantic compared to the usual calls that alerted him of cases and John could tell that she was struggling to hold back tears.

"John? John, please come to the station as soon as you can. Something's happened. It's Lestrade..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN **I know the reunion between Sherlock and John should happen after three years, but I really wanted those two to see each other again :) Thanks for reading. Reviews are welcome!


End file.
